Heart's Home
by EstelRaca
Summary: While he's in prison Badd meets an interesting young man named Simon Blackquill; when freedom comes in sight, Gumshoe and Kay help him figure out what exactly a detective who can no longer be a detective is supposed to do with his life.


**Author's Note:** This was at least partly inspired by C-chan and discussions with them about Badd. Here there be spoilers for Ace Investigations I and II as well as Apollo Justice and vague spoilers for Dual Destinies.

 _Heart's Home_

It's not as hard to be in prison as Tyrell Badd had assumed it would be.

He knows a good part of it's that he's a big man, standing head and sometimes shoulders over most of the other inmates. Even though he's in a maximum security prison—at the prosecutor's insistence, since Badd with his connections is considered too dangerous to be left anywhere else—Badd is one of the more physically intimidating people present. All it usually takes is a glare and the lifting of one of his hands, and any prisoner who intended him harm tends to suddenly have other ideas—especially once his time in the gym gives him noticeably bigger biceps, Badd having nothing else worth doing during exercise blocks. Even those prisoners he's helped put here, those who would have every reason to try to gang up on him, seem to think it would be too much risk with too little reward. Other than the occasional slight—spit and gum in his food and water a handful of times, someone urinating on his towel during showers once, holes in his uniforms a handful of times—he's mainly left to his own devices.

The guards are where he expected to have more trouble, though, in all honesty. Other prisoners can make your life hell, sure, but it's the guards who have the real power. They can pull you in and out of solitary confinement on a whim. They can see to it that injuries are acquired and not reported; that medical treatment is sought and not received; that facilities are mysteriously sub-par any time other than when inspections are happening.

Is it the fact that he helped train so many detectives? The fact that he was attempting to circumvent the law for _good_? The fact that he is less terrible, by any measure one cares to use, than any of the others who have been put away over the last few years for corruption—better than Von Karma, than Gant, than Portsman. Better, even, than Lana Skye, because at least he wasn't involved in covering up murders, though he doesn't begrudge the young woman the painful choices she made.

Dick Gumshoe visits him once a week, like clockwork, and Badd thinks that perhaps it is Gumshoe who is ensuring that nothing terrible is done to him.

Then Edgeworth begins visiting him, once a month when the prosecutor is in the country, and Badd _knows_ that he is being protected by Edgeworth's connections and influence, even if Edgeworth is too cagey to ever admit it out loud.

Gumshoe cares about Badd, and Edgeworth cares about Gumshoe, and thus Edgeworth does what he can to protect Badd. It's nepotism, of a sort, though Badd has a hard time figuring out if that's a bad thing or not.

Not that Badd really _cares_ what happens to him. That's the funniest thing, probably. Gumshoe and Edgeworth and all the others are deeply concerned about what's happening to Badd when he's in jail, and what Badd intends to do once he's released in five to ten years.

Badd doesn't care and doesn't know, respectively. If he dies in here, so be it. If he's released... well, what's a detective who can't be trusted to be a detective any more supposed to do?

So Tyrell Badd works out, when they bring his block to the gym; he eats, when it's time to eat; he showers, when it's time to shower. He protects himself from immediate harm, and he meets the people who come to visit him, and he shrugs at any questions about the future, because he doesn't know and he doesn't care.

It's not such a bad way to spend his life, really, considering how spectacularly he failed.

The only time he breaks from his routine—the only time he actually feels something other than bland acceptance—is on the twelfth of September.

It's in the evening, and the other in-mates are watching the carefully-protected television that they are allotted for an hour each day, ostensibly to allow inmates to keep up on current events. Most days it even _does_ stay on the news, because for those who have plans and a future and a life waiting for them, keeping up with the news and the trends of the outside world is important.

They aren't important to Badd, though, and he usually ignores it. Something about the way the newscaster is speaking, though, draws his attention—a repetition of the date, and Badd realizes that he forgot the changing of the month.

He forgot for almost _two weeks_ that it's September.

And he forgot something even more important.

He pushes his way to the front of the crowd around the television, earning a few muttered curses, and stares until the date and time is displayed once more in the bottom right corner.

Then he retreats back to his empty, silent corner and stares at his hands.

He missed it. He missed it by two days, and he didn't even realize.

Did anyone else go? He thinks Kay usually goes. Usually there are flowers already on the grave when Badd appears in the evening, after his shift. Did she go again, even after having the full tale of her father's decisions and losses laid out in front of her?

Probably. Kay had believed in her father even when she thought he was the lone Yatagarasu, bending the concept of _thief_ to include _hero_ , utterly certain that Byrne was only doing what was right.

When they are returned to their cells that evening, Badd buries his head in his hands and cries, quiet, deep sobs that shake his frame and alarm his cell-mate but make very little noise.

For the first time since Byrne died, Badd didn't stand at his graveside while the night drew down around them both.

It won't be the last time he misses the appointment, though. He will be here for many more years, and once he's free, will there be any point in his returning to an interrupted vigil?

The sobs work themselves out, as sorrow always does, leaving exhaustion in their wake, and Badd curls up under his blanket on the bottom bunk to sleep.

If there is such a thing as ghosts, hopefully Byrne's forgives Badd for all that has happened.

XXX

A year passes, and little changes. The same visitors, the same routine, and it is easy to forget that there is a world happening outside—to forget that seasons are coming and going, that children are aging. He asks after Kay, sometimes. Talking about her always seems to perk up both Gumshoe and Edgeworth.

He doesn't ask why Kay hasn't visited him. He doesn't need a reason. Let her move on with her life—let her become something better than either he or her father were.

September comes, and goes, and Badd makes sure to note the days from the first to the tenth. He doesn't cry to commemorate the anniversary of Byrne's death, but he does fast, refusing breakfast and dinner. It's a small thing, a simple thing, but it's enough to mark that day as different.

He thinks another year will spiral away, as boring and unchanging as the one that has passed.

And then Simon Blackquill joins the prison population.

He is a tall man, the same height as Badd himself, though he is built to a rangier, lither body plan. He appears in the prison sometime in late October—possibly early November, when it isn't September Badd doesn't care so much about keeping track of days. Badd notices him early on because trouble seems to follow the man—boy, really, looking barely old enough to be a prosecutor, let alone a killer.

Blackquill notices Badd after about a month, something Badd hadn't expected.

Badd doesn't interact with the other prisoners. He doesn't speak with them, and they don't speak with him. He doesn't get involved in their skirmishes and altercations, and they leave him alone. That arrangement had been settled into quickly, within the first two weeks of Badd being incarcerated.

So why is Simon Blackquill sitting on _Badd's_ bunk when Badd gets back from the showers, staring hard at Badd through swollen, bloodshot eyes in what looks like open fury?

Badd moves over to the bunk at his usual slow, determined pace, his eyes never leaving the young man.

Blackquill stands when Badd is within four feet of him, the boy's every move graceful and elegant. Bowing slightly from the waist, his eyes never leaving Badd's face, Blackquill _smirks_. "Tyrell Badd-san. I have heard a great deal about you."

"Oh?" Badd's voice sounds rusty in his own ears. How long has it been since he talked? Gumshoe last visited six days ago, so possibly that long. "What... kind of... things?"

"That depends on who I'm talking to." Blackquill doesn't move, either forward in threat or backward in acquiescence, maintaining his tense stare. "I had heard your name from other detectives before I was incarcerated. You seem to be a bit of a legend."

"Oh?" Badd wants to sit down. He doesn't want to be having this conversation. He doesn't get _involved_. Getting involved requires work, and thinking, and caring, and he doesn't have the energy for any of that. Not now. Not alone.

He can make Blackquill leave him alone. All it will take is one altercation—punch the boy once in his pretty face. It won't be the first injury Blackquill has received. Badd can see the marks of other still-fading injuries in green and black patches on Blackquill's chin and neck and wrists. Someone tried to _choke_ the young man, it looks like, and Badd finds himself frowning as he studies the evidence of old injuries.

"I've also heard your name here." Simon takes a step forward, into Badd's personal space. "People respect you. People think you're powerful."

"People think I... can hurt them." Badd won't step back—he _can't_ step back. Maintaining power is maintaining safety, in an environment like this. He doesn't _want_ to hurt this man, though—this man who has been crying, it looks like. Badd's seen enough boys cry over the years—enough men and women and children and _people_ cry. "People... aren't wrong."

Blackquill smiles, another strange, vicious, certain smirk that seems at odds with the rest of his appearance—with his _eyes_ , and though Badd is trying not to get drawn into them, he will be seeing those grief-stricken, half-mad eyes in his sleep tonight. "I'm harder to hurt than most people assume. But if that's how we have to start this, come at me, Badd-san. I will prove my worthiness."

" _Worthiness_." Badd spits out the word along with a bitter laugh. "We're... inmates, kid. We're not... _worthy_ of anything."

Blackquill's expression goes carefully blank, his jaw set hard. He can't control his eyes, though, and they continue to blaze out at Badd, challenging, threatening, _demanding_.

"What'd you... do?" Badd gestures toward the open door of his cell. "How'd you... wind up here?"

The boy opens his mouth, closes it, and then forces another arrogant little smirk that doesn't quite seem to fit right. "I killed my mentor. I found her unworthy, so I disposed of her."

There's something that's not right about the statement. There's something that's not right about this _boy_ , something behind the banked rage and horror and grief in his eyes. He knows something, or he'd done or _not_ done something, other than what people _think_ he did.

Badd isn't a detective anymore, though. He's a failed detective and a failed Yatagarasu, unable to find the truth either within or above the system. There's nothing he can offer this boy other than more disappointment. "Get out of... my way, son. Just... leave me be."

For a moment Badd doesn't think Blackquill will listen to him. He thinks Blackquill will turn this into a physical fight—a mark against both their records, not that Badd is actually counting down the days until he is eligible for parole. In here, at least, there is structure for him to fall back on, a schedule for him to follow when he doesn't wish to do anything at all.

Then Blackquill steps out of the way, his head bowed, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

Badd settles down on his bunk, smoothing out the thin sheets where Blackquill had been sitting, erasing any signs of the man's presence.

Blackquill stands, quiet, a font of compressed energy ready to explode.

What's he waiting for? Badd glances toward the cell door, to the trickle of people making their way back from the showers. In just a few minutes, it will be lights-out for the cell block, and Blackquill will need to be back in his own cell.

"What are you afraid of, Badd?" A deep bitterness fills Blackquill's voice as he stares down at where Badd is situated.

Badd realizes, then, why Blackquill let him sit. It puts Badd on a lower level, forces Badd to look up into Blackquill's face—gives Blackquill a small but distinct psychological advantage, one Badd has used his own height and bulk to acquire and use on suspects over the years.

"I thought, from the way you were acting, that you were merely dissociating." Blackquill waves his left hand in a half-arc, indicating the rest of the prison. "Though _mere_ is a poor word choice. And I suppose dissociation is still a fair assessment of your behavior and emotional responses. But it's not just a general response to this place, it's something you're _choosing_. You're _afraid._ "

"I'm not... afraid, boy." Badd leans back, relaxing his body as much as he can. Trying to show Blackquill that he's not intimidated, and he's not to be stirred by barbs. "I just... don't see much point."

Another sneer, feral and furious. "Much point in _what_?"

"Honestly?" Badd huffs out a long sigh. "Anything."

"Anything. The great Tyrell Badd, the scourge of criminals, the man who sought justice even when those he worked with told him _not to_ , doesn't see the point in _anything_?" Blackquill's sneer takes on a bitter edge. "What would your _protege_ who visits you every week have to say about that?"

"Doesn't matter... what Gumshoe thinks. Or..." Badd frowns. "Gumshoe's... his own man. A good man. Workin' with... good people."

"And that means you can absolve yourself of responsibility for doing anything?" Blackquill crosses his arms in front of his chest. "What would your martyred partner have to say about that? Would _he_ understand you putting the burden of justice on other's shoulders?"

"You... didn't know Byrne." Badd leans forward, his shoulders tensing, his voice dropping to a low growl. This boy wasn't even out of middle school when Byrne died, even if Badd is generous about his age. " _You_... don't get to... talk about him."

"I _know_ about him. About you. I _studied_ the two of you." Blackquill leans forward, his voice dropping to a softer, more coercive tone. "What makes men break the law? What makes _good_ men break the law? It's at least as important as what makes _bad_ men break the law, don't you think?"

"You're..." Badd studies the young man's face again—the bruises, the marks of tears, the marks of sleep deprivation. The energy that had built in him at the implied insult to Byrne fades away. He will not play into the boy's hands. "You're... crazy. Aren't you?"

Blackquill tilts his head to one side, a different, almost-amused smile playing across his face. "Not yet. But I quite possibly will be, before the year's out."

Badd closes his eyes, hating the easy way with which this man talks about his own destruction.

"You can't stop caring, Tyrell Badd." Blackquill's voice is quiet, his body suddenly far too close to Badd's again as the younger man bends down and leans forward. "There are things that need to be done—things that you can do. Do you know what they're starting to call these last few years—what they think the next few years will be, as well?"

Badd meets Blackquill's eyes evenly. "No. I... don't know."

"The Dark Age of the Law." Blackquill pulls back, abruptly, his motions suddenly jerky with rage and pain. "A time when justice can be bought, when good men do nothing and bad men rise to power. Assuming, of course, that you believe in good and bad men, but given that the general populace does, it makes a fair enough place from which to start."

Running a hand back through his hair, Blackquill paces the confines of Badd's cell.

They're running out of time, more and more people trickling back into their cells. Badd should just let the seconds tick away—should wait for Blackquill to either remove himself or be removed when the guards come through to lock up.

He shouldn't get involved.

He's already given all that he has to give, for what precious little good it's done.

"What... do you want?" The words are gruff, strained and choked.

Blackquill's whole demeanor seems to light up, a brief, grateful smile flickering across his face as he re-situates himself in front of Badd. "The system is broken. There are people here who don't deserve to be. And even those who _do_ deserve to be... you're strong. Powerful. You can help keep bullying and scape-goating to a minimum. We can help keep people _whole_ , even here, even during this Dark Age. We can preserve art and culture and life and _light_ , to shine out when the Renaissance finally comes."

"Oh, boy." Badd closes his eyes again, needing to take a moment to protect himself from the idealism and determination that burns so bright in this young man. Was Byrne ever this idealistic? Gumshoe? Badd himself? If they were, it has been years and years and years since the realities that they face on a daily basis wore it away.

It will not be long before the idealism is gone from this young man, too—this young _murderer_. He has said as much, has predicted the death of self before the death of body. But before that happens, before he stops caring, he is trying to _change_ things... to make things better, to help justice limp along on her blind way.

"I'll help." Badd sighs, lying down full-length on his bunk and putting his arm over his eyes. "For what it's worth... for what it... can do... for as long as... I can manage... I'll help."

He doesn't hear or see Blackquill leave. There is just the closing of his cell door five minutes later, the loss of illumination attempting to leak in through his eyelids and arm.

There is just the promise of things being _different_ tomorrow, and he sleeps uneasily, tossing and turning, not certain if the emotion burning bright in his chest is hope or fear or some twisted combination of the two.

XXX

Kay comes to see him at the start of the new year.

"Hey there, Uncle Badd!" Kay jumps up out of her seat, her whole body moving closer to the glass as Badd is led into the visitor's room. "Ouch. That looks painful."

Raising a hand to touch his cheek, Badd gives a brief shake of his head. "Not... really. Just... looks bad."

"Well, everything on you looks Badd." A smile flashes across Kay's face, open and bright and honest, though her eyes are dark and thoughtful as she studies him.

Byrne's eyes, looking out of her face, alert to the corruption surrounding them, and Badd suppresses a shiver as he lowers himself into the plastic seat in front of the glass. "Don't worry. It was... a prisoner scuffle. And I... came out on top."

"Of course you did." A bit of the hesitance fades from Kay's eyes, and her gaze flicks to the door and the unseen guard standing outside it. "Still, it means their security's lousy if they let it happen in the first place."

"Nah. Just... that people can always... cause trouble." Badd's hands rise to touch the bruise once more—a bruise he wouldn't have acquired last year, when he stayed on the outskirts of everything. How many people avoided injury because he got involved, though? How long will Augustus hesitate before instigating trouble next time? "How've you been, Kay?"

"Good! Great, really." Kay pulls her chair closer to the glass, finally deigning to sit again. "Sorry I haven't been able to come before. I wasn't allowed to visit until I was eighteen, since I'm not actually a blood relative. Which is stupid on _so_ many levels. If Sebastian can be a prosecutor at seventeen, I should be able to visit you at seventeen."

"Sebastian?" Badd frowns, not immediately able to place the name.

"Blaize DeBeste's son." Kay flicks the fingers of her right hand, as though dismissing a fly, her lips curling in distaste. "He's everything his father wasn't. Kind and conscientious and actually interested in pursuing justice. He's becoming a good friend."

"Huh." Badd hadn't been surprised that DeBeste was corrupt, only that someone managed to catch him at it, and he's had little direct interaction with the man and none with his son. Still... Miles Edgeworth is nothing like the mentor who raised him. And Gumshoe... Gumshoe has outgrown and surpassed his mentor, too. "Glad to... hear you're making... friends."

"Good friends. Sebastian's still... well, he's a work in progress, but he's getting there. And he's introduced me to some other interesting people." Kay scowls, though Badd suspects it's a half-feigned expression. "Including _another_ seventeen year old prosecutor who happens to be a singer, Klavier Gavin. Though they're now eighteen, I guess, same as me. But really, you have no idea how tempted I was to just find a way to break in here, because it's _silly_ that they could come see you any time they wanted but I couldn't."

"I'm... glad you didn't." Badd frowns at the young woman. "No breaking... laws on my... account. Got it?"

"Yeah." Kay sighs. "That's why I didn't do it. I know you well enough to know what you will and won't appreciate, Uncle Badd."

"I... suppose you would, Kay." Badd can't help but smile as he looks through the glass at Kay's earnest expression. "And... I'm glad. You're keeping... out of trouble."

"Wellll..." Kay's fox-grin is different from the one that Byrne had, more mischievous and excited, not weighted down by years and years of disappointment. "I didn't _exactly_ say that."

"Kay—"

"Or... I've maybe done a few things that could be construed as inciting trouble. But I haven't actually gotten _in_ trouble, so it's all good." Kay actually sticks her tongue out at him, something she hasn't done since she was a little girl, and it makes Badd's chest _burn_ , affection too scalding-hot for his still-awakening heart to handle. "I've been going to classes, working on getting a degree. Also helping Prosecutor Edgeworth, both with cases when he lets me and with babysitting."

Badd blinks, but that doesn't make the word fit in any better with what he knows of Gregory Edgeworth's son. "Baby... sitting...?"

"Babysitting." Kay gives a dramatic sigh, one that the mic system adds crackles and snaps to as it transmits to Badd's side of the glass. "You know That Man? The one that Edgeworth would refer to?"

"Uh huh." Badd nods.

"That Man is..." Kay stops, thinking about her words. "Well... he's not what I expected, and yet if you get to know him he is. Plus he decided to adopt a nine-year-old kid, and he knows about as much about parenting as a rutabaga, so Prosecutor Edgeworth's been stepping in and helping a lot. But since Edgeworth knows about as much about parenting as a crocodile..."

Badd can feel his mouth moving again in a smile, muscles that haven't been used much for the last year suddenly called into repeated use. "Some reptiles... are damn good parents. So Byrne... used to say, at least."

"And I certainly wouldn't want to be between Edgeworth and Trucy if he decides that she needs protecting from something." Kay laughs. "But it doesn't change the fact that he's been in dire need of assistance, and I've been providing a lot of it. That's why I didn't come as soon as I turned eighteen... Edgeworth took me with him last time he went to Europe, let me take some classes over there in exchange for being on call to watch Trucy. Which ended up being really good, because when we were in Germany Lang caught up to us and..."

Badd sits and listens after that, not having to do much besides grunt and nod to encourage Kay in her story-weaving. If half of what she's telling him is true—and Badd has no reason to believe there's not a core of truth that she is embellishing with the same zeal and dramatic effect that her father wove so adroitly into his court battles—then Kay is doing well for herself. Growing up, moving on, figuring out her own path in life, and Badd finds that his right hand has moved to press against his chest as he listens to her.

"So you're... not going to be... a prosecutor?" It's been obvious in the way she weaves the stories, though she hasn't come right out and said it yet, just naming her classes as _criminal_ and _legal_ when she has to refer to them directly.

"No." Now that he's asked her bluntly Kay doesn't dance around it, meeting his eyes, a strange combination of apology and determination in her look. "I thought about it, but that was my dad's path. Prosecutor Edgeworth's path. It's not mine."

Badd nods, a strange combination of shivering disappointment and calm acceptance dancing together in his thoughts. Kay has flashes where she is so much like Byrne that it hurts to look at her, but she has always been her own person, and it doesn't surprise Badd that she doesn't want to follow in her father's footsteps in that way. "Were you... thinking detective?"

"Yeah, but not necessarily in the way that you mean. I've talked to Gummy about it." Kay looks down at her hands, chewing on her bottom lip. "I really appreciate what detectives do—what the good ones do, at any rate. How you find clues and try to keep people safe. You and Gummy, you're always going to be people I look up to."

Her eyes rise as she says the words, lock on Badd's, and he can feel his breath catch in his throat, his chest _ache_ as he sees the truth in the words. Perhaps it would have been better if he ignored Blackquill, refused to see Kay, just continued on his quiet, passive way, because feeling _hurts_.

"But I can't be tied down like that—bound by rules and regulations that get twisted and used by people who are just looking out for themselves." Kay's teeth flash in a feral show of rage, her hands clenching into fists. "Have you been watching the news?"

Badd nods, closing his eyes as he does. "The Dark... Age of the Law."

"Yeah. That." Kay's shoulders are stiff, her eyes turned away when Badd forces heavy lids to open so that he can see her again. "I've talked to Gummy about it. A lot. Because it's so _frustrating_ , that even after everything, even after so many people hurt... but you understand. I know you and my dad would understand."

"So what..." Badd has to swallow, remind himself to breathe, worry for Kay rising up far more strongly than any concern for his own well-being has ever loomed. "...do you plan to... do?"

"I'm going to be a detective on my own terms." Kay shrugs, flashing him a hopeful smile.

Badd watches the young woman, but she's clearly learned when silence is the best defense, and eventually he just sighs. "A... private investigator? Not... a thief?"

"I am definitely going to be licensed to investigate." Kay nods, her smile growing.

Badd sighs again. Do word games run in families? Or are they just a by-product of too much intelligence—Byrne, Edgeworth, Kay...

"I plan to follow the rules as long as the rules are right. Fair." Kay leans forward, her voice dropping to a lower register. " _Just_."

"It didn't... work." Badd tries to retreat back into numb disinterest, but it seems miles and miles away, separated from him by a roiling storm of concern and affection. "Breaking... the rules. Bending... the law. We didn't... get anything."

"I know." Kay's fingers curl, her fists lying just on the other side of the glass, untouchable. "But I'm not going to let what happened to my father—what happened to you—frighten me off."

Fear is exactly what the system is attempting to instill with the example they have made of him—fear of vigilantism, fear of reprisal, fear of stepping outside the prescribed boxes. He can _understand_ it, really, he can. If there had been another way... if there had been someone he could go to about Von Karma, about DeBeste, about so many other people...

"Be... careful." It is pathetic advice, really, but it seems to be the only thing he can think of to say. "Don't... lose track of... what you want."

"I can't, Uncle Badd. I've got you and Prosecutor Edgeworth and Gummy and my boys to make sure I don't get lost. Not that I would anyway. The great thing about being a bird? Flying lets you look down from a height and see _everything_ , laid out how it really is." Kay smiles, and it isn't Byrne's smile in the slightest, too open and inviting.

Or not Byrne's smile as it had been at the end, as he orchestrated the crimes that were supposed to stop the criminals, and Badd wonders once more how everything ended up so complicated.

The guard opens the door, looking almost apologetic as he does. "Three minute warning."

Badd nods his affirmation, not bothering to speak. He usually doesn't, these days, not unless something really needs saying.

"Got it!" Kay waves the man off with her right hand. "So, then, a quick run-down of my plans for the next couple weeks..."

When Badd is escorted back to his cell he doesn't fight—doesn't say a word or lift a finger except when he's told to, his head overflowing with a life that seems alien and exhausting and wonderful. How Kay can have the energy to do all that she does...

He did, once. Byrne did. They held on to that drive, that determination, that fierceness, long after the system thought it had crushed it out of them. Though twisted by the world they had lived in, that energy that drives Kay's vibrant life had gone into the creation of the Yatagarasu.

Did he bury it with Byrne?

Did he bury the last of his ability to _affect_ things, to _change_ things, with his badge?

Sitting on his bunk, staring fixedly at the wall, Badd frowns and thinks, for the first time in a long time, that the answer should be a resounding _no_.

XXX

DeBeste instigates the attack on Blackquill.

Badd hears rumblings about it for twenty-four hours before the incident actually occurs, and he can't say that he's surprised. Though DeBeste has left Badd alone, he's used a combination of charm and force and connections to carve out a niche of power for himself among the prisoners, and Blackquill is a distinct threat to that power.

For an intelligent man who clearly has an understanding of psychology, Blackquill can be almost aggressively naive. He will sit and talk with anyone who gives him the opportunity, be they someone falsely convicted or a self-professed murderer. He questions and queries and undermines the status quo where he feels it is unfair or detrimental to the welfare of the inmates, and despite his claims to samurai status he seems to have no regard for the class of others, treating guards and inmates, the incarcerated rich and the desperately dirt-poor with the same attention and interest... at least during their first interaction with him.

Badd has been more involved with the prison culture since Blackquill invaded his cell. Not _deeply_ involved, not like Blackquill is, but he no longer turns a blind eye to what is happening directly in front of him. He responds to taunts, makes it clear that he is listening and noticing now, and the little trickle of harassment that he had learned to live with stops.

He starts guarding people—first just his cellmate, a small, skittish man that Badd learns asked to be transferred into his cell because he hoped Badd's sheer physical intimidation status would give him some protection. Then a man convicted of killing his wife, a slow, meandering man who never seems to quite know what's happening. Then a teenager who talks a good game but cries in his sleep at night, and Badd doesn't care if the people he protects were guilty or not.

So long as they don't mess with anyone else, Badd doesn't let anyone mess with them.

He has a half-dozen people under his wing by the time Blackquill is attacked. He hears rumors of what's going to happen, but he isn't sure when or why or exactly who will be involved—not Blaize, the man doesn't get his own hands dirty unless he has to—until it's too late.

Blackquill fights well, with the grace and determination of someone who has studied martial arts for years. He is just one twenty-one-year-old boy against seven, eight, nine opponents, and though he leaves two unconscious and two others screaming before he goes down, he does go down.

He doesn't cry out for help. He doesn't say anything that could be remotely construed as actual words as the beating commences, and his stubborn silence, his wide-open eyes as he scans the crowd around him, jerk Badd from his contemplative study of the situation and into action.

Not much time has actually passed. Fights are usually like that, quick, explosive, and Badd will have to learn to be quick and explosive again if he intends to keep getting more involved.

Starting by kicking one of Blackquill's attackers, lifting him with a foot expertly placed under his ribs so that he flies off and crashes senseless into the nearest wall, is a good way to get back in practice, he figures.

It could have turned into a bloodbath still. The attack happens in the cafeteria, during a time when the guards are mysteriously absent, and once Badd moves to assist another three opponents charge at him.

They're met with a vicious stare from Badd... and an unexpected wall of bodies, the people that Badd has been defending easing forward out of the mass of watchers to stand at Badd's side.

Badd doesn't wait, doesn't give everyone time to decide what's worth it and what isn't. He begins hauling assailants off Blackquill, tossing them about with enough force to make them think twice about coming at him once his attention is turned elsewhere. Within thirty seconds he has uncovered a bleeding but still-very-conscious samurai, staring up at him from one good eye, the other already swelling shut.

Blood runs down Blackquill's chin, stains his teeth as he grins a death's-head grin up at Badd. "Decided to face your fear, old man?"

Badd grunts, holding out a hand for Blackquill to take. "Decided to... live up to expectations."

Blackquill tilts his head, accepting Badd's hand and hauling himself to his feet. Badd can feel the tremble in Blackquill's body, transmitting itself through the uncertain hand, but by carefully planting his feet Blackquill manages to keep his weakness obscured from those watching. "Not my expectations, I don't think. But I'm glad to see you choosing this, anyway."

"Choosing what, exactly?" DeBeste steps out of the crowd, a pleasant smile on his face.

Badd faces him without blinking or flinching. "Choosing... a peaceful dinner. Or do... you all feel... like going hungry?"

A nervous laugh runs through the crowd, people easing away from both Badd and Blaize. Badd doesn't blame them.

"I was your target, DeBeste." Blackquill tosses his long hair out of his eyes, moving like a wild mustang would, taking a step forward.

Blaize raises both eyebrows, glancing around at the crowd. "See him accusing _me_? Strife's what this boy wants to bring, not peace or calm."

Blackquill smiles, another show of bloody teeth. "Believe what you want. Any of you. All of you. And see who stands for you when the time comes."

A mocking edge touches the corners of Blaize's mouth. "Neither of us, boy. We're both going to hang, remember?"

Blackquill's lips snap down over his teeth, his eyes going hard and dark.

"Come... on." Slapping the younger man on the shoulder, Badd nods towards the buffet line. "I'm... starving."

Food is much more exciting than words, and the tight coalition of watchers disintegrates, forming small factions that watch Blaize and Blackquill carefully.

By the end of the meal a dozen people have gathered at the same table as Badd and Blackquill, though they stay one or two seats away.

Blaize sits alone, and Badd allows himself to hope that maybe, possibly, they've accomplished something meaningful today.

XXX

"You're going to be eligible for parole."

Badd blinks, but Edgeworth's expression doesn't change, staying stubbornly serious across the glass. "But... how?"

"The time you've already served is ludicrously long for the convictions that they were able to achieve. Keeping you here for another two to seven years is insane." Edgeworth lifts his shoulders in a faint shrug, calm prosecutor's smirk sliding into place. "Consider it time off for good behavior."

"But..." Badd needs to put more words after that one. He needs to explain why this sudden change in his fortune, this reprieve from how he _knew_ his life would go, doesn't seem like the golden dawn that Edgeworth clearly expects it to be. Instead he says, "I... haven't been. On good behavior."

Edgeworth lifts his right hand, fingers fluttering as if to shoo away a moth. "You've been doing the guard's job better than they have. Don't think your efforts to improve the prison climate haven't been noted and taken into account."

"They're not... mine." Badd shakes his head, his left hand moving to the faint outlines of a week-old bruise on his right shoulder. " _I'm_ just..."

What is it that he's doing? Helping Blackquill? Passing his own judgments on the inmates, sorting them into those who should have power and friends and those who shouldn't?

Ignoring the future, still, the future that looms up large and impossible in front of him, and what does a detective do when he can no longer be a detective?

"I know it's a lot to take in. A defense attorney associate of mine, Raymond Shields, will be in to talk with you, to explain how the parole board works and what you should do." Edgeworth stands. "He's a good man. He won't ask you to lie or to bend the truth to help yourself. You'll get out because it's the right thing to have happen. Because men shouldn't be punished for fighting corruption in the only ways left to them."

"Edgeworth." Badd stumbles to his feet, the chair scraping with a clatter and clang across the ground as it slides away from him. "But... what do I..."

Edgeworth studies him with sharp silver eyes. "We do what we must to keep our hearts and souls and minds intact, Mister Badd. No more and no less. I have to return to the prosecutor's office, but I wanted to give you the news in person. Kay will probably be coming to see you tonight. Is there anything else you need from me?"

Edgeworth pauses, giving Badd a chance to reply, but Badd doesn't know where to start or if Edgeworth is even a man he should speak with about his concerns and fears.

"Very well, then. I look forward to your release." Sweeping a courtly bow to Badd, Edgeworth turns and stalks from the room, a predator returning to the hunt he thrives on.

Badd returns his seat to its spot in front of the window. Then he sits with his head in his hands until the guard comes to prod him into motion.

He will be up for parole.

He will possibly be free, only his crimes and convictions and casualties to haunt his steps.

He will be leaving behind the tentative life that he has forged here, and as he levers himself to his feet, follows the guard docilely down the hall, Badd knows who it is that he needs to talk to.

XXX

"I'm glad for you. I think it will do you good to forge a new path for your life as quickly as possible, rather than waiting here in limbo."

Blackquill means the words. He impresses their sincerity onto Badd with tone and eyes, meeting Badd's gaze for long minutes before he looks away.

He has to look away, of course. Blackquill will never be getting out of here. The question isn't whether he will die in prison, it's when. When will his lawyers' appeals run out? When will the stuttering, uncertain wheels of justice begin rolling forward on his case again? When will the Minister of Justice decide that it will be politically expedient to appear tough on justice and sign a slew of orders that end in men hanging from ropes?

Blaize DeBeste will hang first, since he was convicted first. It doesn't provide Badd with much comfort.

"I..." Badd frowns down at the cement of his cell floor. He and Simon are sitting side by side on his bunk, stealing a few minutes of relative privacy to have this conversation.

Not that it will be much of a conversation if it continues in this vein. And perhaps that will be for the best. What right does he have to ask for advice from anyone, let alone this too-young man who is going to die while Badd wanders useless through the world? "You didn't... do it, did you?"

Blackquill's eyes flick back to him, sharp and dangerous, and Badd can see tension collect in the man's hands and shoulders and then be carefully set aside. "Of course I did it. Why would I confess to a murder that I didn't commit, hm?"

"That's what... I'm asking myself." Badd straightens from his slouched position. "You're... a good man... I think. I haven't... met too many, but... you remind me of them. So why... do this? To... protect someone?"

"That's certainly one story you could tell." The smile that Blackquill dons could cut glass. He has suffered less physically since Badd and Badd's loose coalition threw in their lot with him, but it's clear that prison life still takes a damning mental and spiritual toll on the psychologist. "But it's not the one I'll tell. I killed Metis Cykes. I'll say it however often people want me to."

And feel the words burn his throat each time, Badd thinks, but there's no point in saying that. "Do you... want to catch... the real killer?"

Blackquill's body freezes—just for a moment, just the barest tick of absolute terror, but Badd has spent enough time with Simon these last few months to recognize it. Instead of answering the question Badd asked, though, he shifts the conversation. "There's someone I want to catch. A man who doesn't exist. A ghost in the shadows. But since he could be anyone, anything, and I'm trapped _here_... that's all I'll say about it."

"Huh." Badd turns the new tidbits of information over and over in his mind, trying to find how they fit with the rest of Blackquill's story. He doesn't have enough pieces to the puzzle, though—is missing some important corner and edge pieces that will give the narrative coherence.

"Don't sabotage your hearing." Blackquill stands as he speaks, taking two paces away before turning to face Badd. "You don't need to be here any longer. Go back to your family."

"I don't—"

"They visit you." Blackquill's mouth turns up into an honest smile, one of the few that Badd has seen on his face. "At least as often as Aura visits me. Find out how to fit back into their lives."

"I have... a life here." Badd gestures around the room. "I... help you."

"You have a holding pattern here. It's better than when I first met you—you're actually _here_ , not lost in some dream-scape of failure and despair—but it's not a proper life." Blackquill takes a step forward, and the sneer that he has become far too adept at using over the last year appears on his face. "Are you a dog, Detective Badd, to be put in a kennel and tossed meat scraps? No. You're a _wolf_ , meant to chase down prey, to run for miles and then throw back your head to howl at the moon. Forget who you are, and I'll be sure you regret it."

Simon doesn't say anything else, stalking from the cell, his back straight, his every step carefully choreographed to show his strength and his self-sufficiency.

It's at least partly an act. Though Blackquill _is_ strong—incredibly strong, Badd's estimation of the man's stamina and drive ratcheting up by the month—he has done better since Badd decided to assist him.

On the other hand... Blackquill is the type of man to stick to his word, and Badd wonders if Simon really would sever their relationship if he thinks Badd intentionally botched the parole hearing.

Lying down on his bunk, Badd closes his eyes. He isn't going to sabotage anything. Not after all the work Edgeworth and Gumshoe likely did to arrange this. He will go and he will present himself and he will let them make their decision.

If they elect to leave him here, life will continue as it has.

If they elect to set him free...

He will never be truly free ever again, he doesn't think, bound by the weight of Byrne's headstone and the wings of the yatagarasu, but perhaps Simon is right and he will be able to find a way forward despite that.

XXX

The hearing goes smoothly, feeling surreal and alien. Badd has attended these before, testifying as to why certain criminals should remain locked up due to the severity and hideousness of their crimes.

No one testifies against him.

The lawyer that Edgeworth recommended, Shields, is a strange man, talkative and taciturn but good at his job. He seems vaguely familiar, but Badd can't place where they've met—likely on opposite sides of the courtroom, but since Shields doesn't hold a grudge Badd supposes it doesn't matter.

Years until release become weeks, weeks become days, and before Badd knows exactly what is happening he is being led by a guard to a washroom, where he changes into the street clothes that Gumshoe brought for him during the man's last visit.

The other inmates watch from their cells as he is led past.

Some are silent. His cell mate doesn't say anything, just clapping him on the shoulder and giving a forced smile. Badd has done what he can for the man, teaching him a bit of hand to hand combat, and he knows Simon will continue to offer what protection he can.

Some of the prisoners sneer.

"How long until we see you again, dirty cop?" DeBeste smiles as he speaks the words, the scarred skin of his face making his smile seem somehow eerie.

"Tell Gumshoe and Miles hello for me, won't you?" Gant's smile is too broad to be genuine.

Some of the prisoners wish him well, each in their own way.

One of the Kitaki thugs, a twiggy nineteen year old with a mouth too big for his fists to defend, waves through the bars. "You ever need connections, you just give me the word!"

A man that Badd is ninety-nine percent sure was falsely convicted of murder gives a ragged, lonely cheer. "You show the corrupt bastards what for, Mr. Badd!"

Simon is also at the front of his cell, though he is leaning against the wall, his hands crossed over his chest. "Run well, old wolf. You've got a lot of world still left to see."

Then they are in empty corridors, only the sound of their footsteps echoing back, and Badd tries to still his too-fast heart.

He has done this a thousand times. Dress. Check the mirror. Ensure he looks decent—that his coat is sitting properly on his shoulders, and it shouldn't surprise him that Gumshoe brought it.

Collect his little box of belonging, and this he _hasn't_ done before, but it has the feeling of old familiarity to it anyway.

Step through the door that separates the prisoners from the free, and figure out how to call a taxi. He had looked through his bank statements last week, and if he stays in a motel tonight—

"Uncle Badd!"

Arms wrap around his waist before Badd has even managed to spot the girl—woman, an adult now in the legal sense of the word, and it is _hard_ to imagine the little baby that Byrne first introduced him to all grown up but here she is.

"Sir!" Gumshoe grins, one corner of his mouth turning up more than the other, and takes Badd's box of possessions from his hands. "You look good."

"I'm..." Confused, because he hadn't told them when he was being released. They aren't supposed to be here for this. "Kay, aren't you... supposed to be... in Europe?"

"Like I would miss _this_ for anything." Kay rolls her eyes. "I had Sebastian go with Edgeworth to Europe. Sebastian likes working with Edgeworth, and he had the vacation time saved up. It'll be good for him. Or Trucy will get them both arrested by foreign police. Either way, I'll have great pictures and stories to remind him of in the future, and _you_ have me and Gummy to help you get situated."

"We were thinkin' you could stay with me for a few days. Assumin' you don't mind. Sir." Gumshoe fidgets, and Badd remembers the rookie he taught a decade ago, eager and energetic even if he wasn't the sharpest of the lot. At least some things never seem to change.

"I..." Badd finds that he can only lift his right hand, his left pinned to his side by Kay as she continues to hug him. "I... huh."

"Yeah." Gumshoe's smile turns sympathetic. "I understand if you don't want to, but I figured it would be easier for you t' go job huntin' if you've already got a stable address."

"He doesn't need to look for a job." Kay finally pulls herself away from him, though her right hand continues to linger against his left arm, as though afraid he will disappear if she lets him go. "You're going to work for me, Uncle Badd."

"I'm... what?" Badd's eyebrows try to climb to the ceiling.

"I've opened my own private investigation office." Kay smiles up at him. "You're going to be my secretary."

"I'm... _what_?" Perhaps she had misinterpreted the question the first time.

"You can't be an investigator yourself yet—we've got a lot of paperwork and appeals to do before they'll give you a license because of this whole ridiculous business—but you can be my secretary without problems." Kay beams up at him. "You've got a lot of experience; I've got the license and the drive. We've got all my dad's gadgets. It'll be great!"

"Kay's a really good investigator, actually." Gumshoe's expression is full of pride as he balances Badd's box of belongings on one hand so that he can reach down and pat Kay on the head. "She's already done some cases for Mr. Shields, and though Mr. Edgeworth keeps sayin' he isn't goin' to hire her, Kay's done some neat work with him, too."

"You two..." Badd tries to glare at the two, their images swimming disconcertingly in and out of focus as tears he hasn't cried in a very long time threaten. "You don't... have to do this."

"Of course not." Kay gives him another brief hug. "That's why it matters when we do. Now come on—let's get out of here, before I say something that someone can try to use against me in a court of law."

Perhaps he should fight. Perhaps he should try to push them away, to protect them from all the danger that is inherent in staying involved with damaged goods such as him.

He is tired of fighting, though, and these two know what they are doing. Kay's intelligence shows in her eyes, as always; Gumshoe, though slower on the uptake about many things, has learned how the system works. Neither of them is going into this blind.

So he lets Kay take his hand, and they follow Gumshoe out into the bright light of freedom, and Badd begins to hope, with a shivery kind of almost-pain, that maybe he can put a life back together for himself.

XXX

"Well." Miles Edgeworth studies him with too-sharp eyes from across Kay's dining room table. "You seem to be settling in well."

Badd blows on a cup of steaming tea, not sure how to answer. He _is_ settling in well—far better than he could have hoped for. Kay and Gumshoe have been wonderful. Though Kay's new prosecutor friends seem... unsure of him, they learned quickly not to let any of that uncertainty show when Kay is around, and Badd has found himself swept up in Kay's life with remarkable ease.

Sometimes he worries about it. Sometimes he thinks he is too much of a burden on her, and considers trying to find his own way.

Other times... there is a certain thrill to screening clients for her, to sitting at the secretary's desk with the nameplate that Kay made for him and just staring at the people who come into the office. Perhaps he shouldn't take as much joy in it as he does, but since it also seems to entertain Kay, he intends to keep at it.

Kay and Gumshoe are in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on dinner for their small group. It gives Badd a few minutes to speak with Edgeworth, and after a brief contemplation he decides he'll use them.

"There's a man." Badd turns his own teacup around on the table. "In prison. Used to be... a prosecutor. Name's... Simon Blackquill."

Edgeworth goes still, his head tilting slightly to show his attentiveness.

"I don't... think he did it." Badd forces his fingers away from his cup before he grinds a hole in the table. "I think... there's more to his story."

Edgeworth raises one silver eyebrow. "What would you like me to do?"

"Look into it." Badd pauses again. "Help him... if you can."

Edgeworth makes a noncommittal noise. "Can you tell me more about him? About why you think I should help him?"

"He... helped me. Now I... want to help him." Picking up his cup, Badd takes a swig of the bitter tea. "And maybe... set some things... right."

"I only have so much power. I'm just a prosecutor." Edgeworth shrugs. "But if you think it's worth looking into, I'll certainly do my best."

"Thank you." The words come out hard, gruff, and Badd drowns them in another gulp of hot tea. "For... everything."

"You're important to Kay and to the detective." Edgeworth's lips turn up into the faintest smile. "And I understand the decisions you made. I'm glad things have worked out all right."

"Me... too." Badd can't suppress a smile as Kay and Gumshoe bring in dinner. "Me, too."

This is not where he expected his life to go, for better and for worse, but overall, he thinks it's a fate he can live with.


End file.
